


30 Day AU Snippets

by Silence_Speaker



Series: Patchwork [2]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence_Speaker/pseuds/Silence_Speaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 : Homeless.</p><p>They had no right to take over their home, plundering the once green and fertile earth.</p><p>Bilbo's dreams were always scorched at the edges, the scent of burning flesh searing his nostrils.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Day AU Snippets

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Very Dark! Blood, Gore, torture, non descriptive Non-Con, hinted at more than anything, character deaths... 
> 
> Pairing: Bilbo/Dwalin.
> 
> Based on the books by Manda Scott who wrote a series on Boudicca’s life in a wonderful (but painful) story.
> 
> This was chapter 12 of the 30 Day AU but I replaced it when I rewrote for the prompt so am posting it here instead.

Bilbo tightened his lips, the lips themselves raw and cracked from him biting them willing himself not to scream. He would not give these...Romans the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

He was part of the furious resistance waged against the Roman occupation of Britain. They had no right to tear apart Bilbo’s homeland, their homeland. 

They had no right to make them homeless.

 

xxx

 

It was only down to Bilbo’s wandering nature that Bilbo was still alive, otherwise he would have burned with the rest of his tribe.

Bilbo had come home one day only to find the dwelling he shared with the other men his age ashes on the ground and the smell of charred flesh searing through his nostrils. 

He had rushed to his parent’s small hut only to find it too burnt to a crisp, his mother’s torc, a sign of her right to rule over their tribe, on the ground covered by ashes. Hearing voices and armour chinking Bilbo had swept up the torc and ran.

He nursed an uncharacteristically violent hatred towards those who had stolen everything from him.

Fire had always been a part of his dreams, now it haunted him.

He followed the Romans, for lack of something better to do, and to feed the dark satisfaction his anger had churned up.

He hid at the edges of Roman camps flitting about, slitting the throats of the unwary then disappearing before he was noticed. He survived by stealing food from the camps and he was grateful that the summer nights were warm. 

He earned a moniker ‘Sting’, for his brutal acts of murder, after slitting their throats he cut their balls off and stuffed them into the victims mouth, it gave him a vicious sort of sense of reparation.

He was especially brutal whenever he managed to rescue the children, some of them irreparably damaged; Roman soldiers raped the children and adults indiscriminately. It was sickening.

Bilbo only ripped the bollocks off men when they were still alive if they had taken part in rape of their prisoners, the others he killed first, it was a statement many had taken, it struck fear into the Roman soldiers.

To be honest it made even Bilbo queasy...but it was the punishment taken for those actions in his tribe. It had been the punishment.

It was during one of his stake out of the camps that he caught on an essential conversation. Bilbo had nearly shouted out loud in exaltation when he heard but luckily he managed to stifle the urge. 

There was a resistance, a major one led by a woman named Boudicca. Bilbo nearly snorted, didn’t the foolish Romans realise that Boudicca was a moniker, it meant ‘bringer of victory’, it was a title not a name.

He had been unaware that any other tribes had survived the attacks, let alone enough to fight against the Romans.

He listened to some more, stepping forward eagerly so he could catch everything. Bilbo froze as a twig snapped under his foot and by the time the Romans sitting by the fire went to look in the bushes where the sound had come from there was no sign that Bilbo had ever been there.

Bilbo ran, he was fleet of foot an excellent scout and messenger. He had been such once, with his quick brain and nearly as swift feet he was the perfect person to carry diplomatic messages from one tribe to another.

His mother had delegated him the task of negotiating an alliance, just before his home was burnt, an alliance with other tribes against the Romans. It left a slightly bitter taste in his mouth that had he accomplished this a single month before then their village would not have been there for the Romans to plunder.

They would have travelled north, mustering arms as they went.

It took him eight days of running before he came to the encampment. His jaw dropped, it was massive, larger than he had ever imagined. And, for the first time since he had seen his home turn to dust, Bilbo felt hope stirring in his heart. It was this, this distraction that cost him.

Bilbo struggled instinctively as he was caught, bound in strong arms covered in thick muscle. 

He wriggled like an eel, kicking, hissing and biting ferociously. He soon landed a lucky kick to the man’s groin and he jumped away his knives drawn and ready in his hands. Bilbo spat at the ground enraged he had let his guard down so badly. His father and mother had both taught him better.

“I’d rip your balls off and feed them to you if you were Roman.” Bilbo spat towards the tall muscled man, bald with tattoos across his forehead. The man stood his hands on the axes strapped to his back. Bilbo assumed the man had been a smith before the Romans occupation.

The Romans had prohibited the amount of iron smiths were allowed to use and they taxed everything. It was so the smiths didn’t forge weapons, so they were defenceless against Rome.

They just got better at hiding the metals and tools.

The man eyed him with dawning suspicion. 

“Are you the one they call ‘Sting’?” The man growled hands not moving from their ready stance over the axe handles. Bilbo supposed his actions were rather distinctive.

He eyed the man’s tattoos.

“You’re one of the warriors from Mona.” Bilbo stated. 

Mona was where the druids lived and learned, each tribe sent any potential ‘dreamers’ there along with a personal warrior for the druid. Bilbo was supposed to have gone this autumn but his home was destroyed. 

It was a shame Bilbo mused, Holman would have been a spectacular warrior to his dreamer. They had been good friends.

The man was eyeing Bilbo’s small tattoo, on the top of his left arm, in return. “You were a dreamer in training, yet you fight like a warrior.” The man replied in turn. 

Bilbo had trained under his tribes dreamer but he had always wanted be a warrior instead, his mother had always wanted to be a dreamer but instead was one of the greatest warriors in their tribe.

It was ironic how things worked out. His father had been content in his lot.

“I was hoping to join the attacks against the Romans.” Bilbo spat when he said the word ‘Roman’, it was a curse, he used it like one and when he wanted to insult someone (even if it was just in his own brain) he called them a Roman. The worst insult he could muster.

Which said quite a lot when you considered he had made a pastime of annoying Lobelia as a child.

“And how do I know you’re not a spy sent from the Romans?” The man spoke with a disgusted curl of his lips as he said the word Roman.

“They called me ‘Sting’, I learnt a lot watching their camps, I can give information.” Bilbo offered. The man considered him.

“I’ll take you to our leader, but any funny business and you’ll be killed where you stand. Or tortured, I don’t mind which.” The man said in a pleasant tone. Bilbo swallowed but returned the grin.

These times had hardened them all and sometimes, sometimes, Bilbo regretted the transformation...things had been better before. But the times of light heartedness were no longer. Not until the scum were scourged from their homeland.

Bilbo looked around, still dazzled by the amount of people, maybe they could actually win against the Romans! 

He was ushered to a tent just as plain as every other one, most people slept on the ground outside. Bilbo looked at the people occupying the tent and all the maps, the person who owned the tent probably slept outside as well. He was brought up to a stern faced woman with long, bright copper hair and was significantly taller than Bilbo’s small height.

Bilbo’s frame was far better suited to quick vicious attacks, lithe dances. This woman looked more like a woman suited to close battle, hefting something as large as the bald tattooed man’s axes.

“Dwalin? What have you brought me?” The woman asked her voice just as stern as her visage.

“Found him lurking. Says he wants to join the army.” The bald tattooed man (Dwalin) responded. She sniffed eyed Bilbo curiously eyes pausing on Bilbo’s tattoo and dreamer mark and then at the stitching on his clothes.

“I thought your entire tribe was wiped out.” She stated watching Bilbo shrewdly. Bilbo stiffened.

“They were. I came back from running a message to the Eceni tribe and found our homes burnt and everyone inside them dead.” Bilbo explained hoarsely eyes staring at a patch in the tents roof.

“I think he’s ‘Sting’.” Dwalin said in the small lull in the conversation.

“Hmmm?” The woman hummed with more interest in her eyes than before. “Look at this map, tell me what you see.” She ordered pulling a particularly large one forward.

Bilbo leaned forward hesitantly. He was intrigued, he had always liked maps, but wary that Dwalin’s hands hadn’t moved from his axes.

“The Brandywine.” Bilbo breathed tracing the main river on the map with a slightly trembling finger. He had spent a lot of his youth on the banks of that river.

Visions of fire danced beneath his eyelids.

“Where are the Romans camped?” The copper headed woman asked commandingly. Bilbo was sure that she was rarely, if ever, refused a request based on her stern tone alone.

He pointed out all the camps he had encountered and mentioned places they had stayed but briefly along with the more permanent ones. He knew it was a test, there was no way she didn’t already know all this-she probably had an army of scouts at her command- but he answered fully.

It was his life on the line but more than that, he wanted to join the resistance with a fire he hadn’t felt since his home had burnt.

The woman nodded, decision made.

“Well ‘Sting’, I’m sure you’ll be an asset to the scouts.” She stated before turning back to the maps and listening to the black haired man standing by her elbow.

“Breaca, Bán.” Dwalin said nodding his head to the man and woman in turn and leading Bilbo out of the tent.

Bilbo was put in a man called Thorin’s group, Thorin’s group was a team of scouts, one that Dwalin was part of.

 

xxx

 

Boudicca’s main dreamer looked rather familiar to Bilbo, but where had he seen the tall grey clad man before?

It wasn’t until the man spoke to him that Bilbo finally recognised him.

The dreamer came over to impart some important news to Thorin but stopped when he saw Bilbo.

“Bilbo Baggins. It pleases me to know you’re alive.” The dreamer said, Bilbo frowned and the man grinned. “Come, don’t you remember me? Gandalf is my name and Gandalf means me.”

Bilbo’s eyes shot up. “Gandalf! You’re the one who started to teach me! I had no idea you were here.” Bilbo said rushing forward with a grin.

“Where else would I be? I do hope you kept up with your training; you have more potential than even you know. You would be a magnificent dreamer.” Gandalf stated gently tapping Bilbo’s dreamer mark.

“How’s your healing going?” Gandalf asked, learning healing was not necessarily part of the training of a dreamer but Gandalf had insisted with a knowing gleam in his eyes. Bilbo shrugged.

“My training is continuing, the healer of the group, Oin, is teaching me more.” Bilbo replied. Thorin coughed, getting their attention and ending their chat. Just as Gandalf turned to leave Bilbo caught his sleeve.

“Beware the creature of black fire, the one wreathed in flame on the burning dawn.” Bilbo warned, voice hoarse and the words flowing through him almost without thought. Gandalf nodded listening to his advice. 

Bilbo watched him leave, a forlorn sorrowful look in his honey coloured eyes.

“Come, we’ll work on your sword work. The wizard will be fine.” Dwalin said knocking Bilbo out of his ancient thoughts, all charred at the edges. 

Bilbo nodded with a grin following Dwalin forgetting his previous words and worries, Dwalin was a very good teacher and taught to Bilbo’s strengths rather than just teaching him to use brute strength, something Bilbo lacked.

He would never be a master swordsman, or fighter, but he could hold his own. Which was all that was needed really.

 

xxx

 

Bilbo turned to Dwalin urgently, barely refraining from stepping on a stick and announcing their presence for all and sundry.

“They’re coming! A small group, too much for us alone!” Bilbo said frantically. Dwalin nodded and grabbed his arm. Then they were running.

It wasn’t the first time a scouting mission had been botched, but it was the first time they were so drastically outnumbered and it was only the two of them.

The last time it had been the whole company against only a few trolls of Romans who had barely had the wits to light a fire, let alone fight against seasoned warriors.

Dwalin suddenly dropped to the ground and Bilbo saw the stone that felled him thrown with a sling shot roll across the ground. 

Bilbo fought when the Romans came close, but his eyes never left the prone body on the ground.

The Romans finally subdued Bilbo, not without Bilbo felling a few first. It was obvious they wanted him alive. Bilbo didn’t stop struggling even as they carried him off and he lost sight of Dwalin.

The Romans left him for dead.

Remembering the bloody lump atop Dwalin’s head had Bilbo coming to the same depressing conclusion.

 

xxx

 

The Romans wanted him to tell them things, the size of the resistance, the layout of the camps etc. Bilbo hadn’t uttered a word giving his torturers filthy glares.

He would not last that long...everyone broke under torture eventually. He just hoped he could hold out long enough to die before speaking.

After three days of this the Roman leader gave up.

“Get him ready.” Was the succinct order.

Bilbo learned what that meant later when he was receiving a flogging, thirty lashes; Bilbo screamed by the fifth and fainted before they reached twenty. 

The Romans were preparing him for the cross; it was something they did to prisoners. Bilbo, despite the agonising pain was thankful for the flogging; it would make his death quicker. And death by the cross was not a pleasant way to die. Better than dying of starvation but not by much.

He was less thankful for the rape. The Romans weren’t allowed to kill virgins and as Bilbo had remained tight lipped and looked so young they had assumed. 

Bilbo screamed.

He was forced to drink some water; they didn’t want him to die too soon. Bilbo hadn’t eaten since he was captured and had only drunk a little but the hollowness of his stomach and the burning dryness of his throat and mouth was of little concern when he was being hung from the cross.

They didn’t have any nails left so they bound his wrists and feet to the wood. Bilbo was thankful for small mercies when he was lucid enough to care.

His breathing had shortened four hours in and he lapsed between waking and blissful unconsciousness.

The dark spots came far more frequently and lasted longer. Bilbo felt a small (miniscule) amount of pride that he hadn’t told the Romans anything.

Screams roused him and Bilbo came too to see, through his blurry vision, a picture drenched in red, bright red blood fed the thirsty earth battle cries and dying screams rending through his eardrums. He felt the smoke from a fire curl around him, stealing his breath. 

He gasped in pain, unable to force a scream or a yelp past his sore throat as his cross moved.

Bilbo didn’t notice as he was cut loose and Oin was called to examine his injuries. He also didn’t notice as he grabbed someone’s wrist tightly and spoke.

 

xxx

 

Dwalin roared as he attacked the Romans who had held Bilbo prisoner and tortured him. His battle rage reached fever pitch when he caught sight of Bilbo’s lax, broken form attached to the cross.

Once the small group of Romans were dealt with Dwalin hurried over to Oin who was examining Bilbo’s prone form. 

He stepped close spitting on the ground when he saw the extent of Bilbo’s suffering in the cuts, bruises and marks on Bilbo’s pale skin.

Dwalin blinked as Bilbo’s hand shot out gripping his wrist tightly. When Bilbo spoke it was the same odd tone that he had addressed Gandalf with. “The smoke with fill the sky, the last full stand. Forced back, scattered like the ashes we fall. The pyre burns too high.” Bilbo dropped Dwalin’s hand, completely unconscious.

“Listen well, to the lad. That was the telling.” Oin advised unnecessarily to the crowd gathered watching the odd interaction. 

“I see why Gandalf had him trained.” Thorin remarked before setting them all to tasks to clean up and gather up anything useful.

They burnt the small settlement, devoid of life now, to the ground.

 

xxx

 

Bilbo slowly woke up, eye lashes fluttering open and closed as he struggled to return to wakefulness.

He slowly and painfully sat up and started the exercises Oin had set him to make sure his back muscles didn’t stiffen up forever from the flogging, if you didn’t use your muscles they turned to wood, you wouldn’t ever be able to bend. It had happened to lots of people.

You had to endure the pain and flex the stiff muscles. Even then not everyone regained full motion.

Bilbo’s motions were a lot smoother than they had been two weeks ago.

Dwalin came over to his sleeping fur carrying two bowls filled with their breakfast. Bilbo nodded in greeting, not smiling, and took the bowl held out to him.

“Thank you.” Bilbo stated simply, his voice still hoarse. 

Oin didn’t think it would ever lose the hoarseness it had gained during Bilbo’s torture. One of the Romans had squeezed his neck tightly, too tightly. It took every ounce of Bilbo’s not inconsiderable will power to remain still when Oin had examined it.

He didn’t like hands around his neck.

Bilbo picked at the gloopy oat mixture. Dwalin said nothing eating his own breakfast. When he was done he put his bowl down and removed something from his pocket, placing it carefully in Bilbo’s palm. He stared at the apple then looked at Dwalin.

“I thought there weren’t any more apples.” Bilbo said Dwalin just shrugged. 

Bilbo smiled, not the same care free grins from before, or the tight feral ones he sometimes gave but the small, miniscule, upturn of Bilbo’s lips was the most Dwalin (any of them in fact) had seen since the incident. Bilbo took a large bite crunching the apple with relish before sticking the fruit in front on Dwalin’s mouth still holding it. Dwalin took the offered bite and they continued trading bites of the crisp sweet apple Dwalin had brought over.

 

xxx

 

“Will he be alright?” Thorin asked Gandalf nodding towards Bilbo. Gandalf surveyed Bilbo noting the haunted look and hollow eyes. Gandalf sighed.

“He thinks his dreamer has gone. That he no longer sees. But he is stronger than any of us suspect; I just wish he didn’t have to be.” Gandalf said. Thorin nodded at Gandalf’s vague non answer.

“You don’t think his dreamer ability has disappeared, do you?” Thorin asked Gandalf, Gandalf just smiled.

Thorin huffed a breath. Dam dreamer riddles.

 

xxx

 

Bilbo was never quite the same but the hollowness of his eyes, the deadness caused from his belief that his dreams had gone, lightened and his back healed. Mostly. When it was especially cold his movements were stiffer.

He fought with new fervour, a barely constrained bundle of fury. He reminded many who saw him fighting of Berserker's, battle lust clouding his eyes.

It wasn’t long before there was a battle their army wouldn’t win and so Boudicca called a retreat. 

Three dreamers stayed to call up a fog and to distract the Romans. Gandalf, Saruman and Radagast burned that day in a black fire but the army got away safely, their distraction saved the rest of the army.

It was years later (the company still fought together) when the army engaged in one of the battles still recalled two thousand years later.

The army readied itself the night before. It would be the first battle Boudicca would fight in since she and her daughters had suffered the same as Bilbo. The scars on Boudicca from the flogging and being tied on the cross were just as easily noticeable as the change in her demeanour. 

Bilbo looked at her; it would be her final battle, she wasn’t nearly as recovered or fully healed as he was. The Romans had thinned their ranks down and Bilbo saw far more hollow cheeks on once plump children than he cared to.

Food was scarce, everyone suffered but it was the children, the children born in times of war, never knowing peace, who suffered for what they lacked. Bilbo knew they were fighting for a better future...he just hoped those children got to see it.

The night before the battle Bilbo sought out Dwalin bringing him to his furs.

Dwalin was careful, all that pure strength, muscle, restrained and blunt fingers soft, only digging slightly into Bilbo’s hips as he let Bilbo dictate the pace. Bilbo used none of the same restraint, he was feral, eyes fixed on Dwalin as he lowered himself onto Dwalin’s lap, stretching and taking in Dwalin fully.

The pace was punishing but so satisfying. When they had spent themselves the first time they lay there silently basking in each other’s warmth, the adrenalin for the approaching battle filling their veins and reducing the need to sleep.

Bilbo let Dwalin push him gently, always gently, into the furs, let him take him, let him erase the memories of his last coupling in this position. It was not the first time Bilbo had actively enjoyed a coupling, but this time it felt like so much more.

Bilbo felt so alive, blood roaring through his veins, heated kisses peppering his lips, chin and chest. The fact they might die in the morning only making them more frenzied, more eager to sample the delights of the living.

He did not tolerate touches to his neck, even now-years later. It frustrated him but Dwalin seemed not to even notice, his thick fingers never even approaching the prickly site.

They slept only a few hours but woke feeling more refreshed than if they had slept the night away.

Dwalin returned Bilbo’s feral grin as they charged into battle and Dwalin grabbed his wrist when the army was told to retreat, that Boudicca was cut down, fatally wounded. It was Bilbo who tugged Dwalin away when they found the cooled corpses of Thorin, Fili and Kili. Fallen as they fought, side by side, protecting each other their weapons held tight in their long dead grip.

They both eventually found the remains of the group they had scouted with for four years. The Company.

There wasn’t an army any more.

But there were survivors, living off the dreams of a remembered time of peace, living off of a singed hope.

The entire group continued causing unrest, attacking any Romans living in Britain much like Bilbo had done when his tribe had first been slain and leading various uprisings. 

Attacking grain stores and carrying all they could to different tribes, stealing metal and bringing them to smiths so that the tribes had enough to make proper farming equipment again (and maybe a weapon or two carefully hidden) and other necessities. 

They all cheered, Bilbo riddled with scars, Oin missing an eye, Bombur two fingers, Dwalin with a stump for an arm, Bifur with a bit of axe lodged in his head, Gloin with his dead wife’s axe raised aloft, Bofur with a hat covering a ropey scar across his head, Dori with burns spanning the length and breadth of him, Ori missing an ear, Balin hair now completely white and using an axe as a crutch and Nori with a permanent limp from a badly broken leg, when the Romans left British shores.

They may not have been whole, they may not have been healthy, they may be grieving but in that moment they were triumphant.


End file.
